


Sparks

by syrupfactory



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Holding Hands, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Scene: The Bus Ride (Good Omens), Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 20:09:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20766248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupfactory/pseuds/syrupfactory
Summary: It had started with Aziraphale taking Crowley’s hand in his as he took his place next to him—a vaguely natural gesture to steady himself as the bus was already moving. What was less natural was that he hadn’t let go.Short ficlet with my take on the bus ride back to London ♥





	Sparks

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by tumblr artist lonicera-caprifolium’s beautiful [comic](https://lonicera-caprifolium.tumblr.com/post/187219856893/the-bus-ride-back-to-london-though) (and that famous [gif](https://66.media.tumblr.com/9cb8ad365def9bacd357bf9163e05517/4a61cdf5cdfbe40f-c3/s400x600/6ae23670b309139f926a2f45805dfa4c31d0b176.gif), of course). Marked as complete for now, but may continue. :) 
> 
> This fic can be reblogged on tumblr [here](https://meowdejavu.tumblr.com/post/187911831783/aziraphale-x-crowley-the-bus-ride-back-to).

They’d held hands on the bus.

It had started with Aziraphale taking Crowley’s hand in his as he took his place next to him—a vaguely natural gesture to steady himself as the bus was already moving.

What was less natural was that he hadn’t let go.

Seated beside him, he’d kept it there. In doing so, the spontaneity of the act evaporated and laid plain a clear, conscious choice. To hold. To say, he desperately hoped, everything he couldn’t say out loud: _I can’t stay at your place, but I dearly wish I could. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry. _

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand and felt it move slightly in response—he braced for a withdrawal, perhaps accompanied by an odd glance. But neither of those things happened. Instead, Crowley laced his fingers through Aziraphale’s, let their hands entwine more seamlessly than before, and resettled.

They both watched it happen; Aziraphale felt that looking him in the eye might shatter the moment. Or his composure. Or both. So, they just sat, palms pressed. Aziraphale imagined that Crowley’s touch was responding to him in kind: _I know, angel. I know. Me, too._

It was all in his head—wasn’t it?—but the mere thought drew up wetness in his eyes, which Aziraphale hastily blinked away. More was keen to spill over, so close to the precipice that he gave in and clamped them shut, feeling two tiny drops escape. He might have inwardly panicked in the past, about this fracture in his self-control, but now he was oddly calm—too weary, perhaps, to properly fret. Still, his instincts said to hide his face, not to make an awkward spectacle of it … only there was nowhere to go. Without really deciding to, he gently leaned to the left and let his head come to rest on Crowley’s bony shoulder. 

At first, Crowley seemed frozen. Perhaps Aziraphale had crossed a line; perhaps Crowley would tell him off and then leave the bus with a scoff. But no, that’s not how it went, of course. Instead, with the smallest shift, Aziraphale could feel Crowley mirroring his action, leaning over just enough that his warm cheek rested against Aziraphale’s hair. 

They passed most of the ride that way, perfectly silent tears running down Aziraphale’s face. He wasn’t sure what made his heart ache more: that this sad, wordless cuddle was the single most beautiful moment of his life, or that it was highly unlikely to ever happen again. 

He wished he could believe that they were _on their own side_, longed to allow himself a sliver of hope for that outcome, but the notion seemed foolishly dangerous. Hadn’t Agnes Nutter warned them of that very danger? _Choose your faces wisely_. Intended, no doubt, for the pair of them, as a precaution, right at this step of their journey. _Soon enough, ye will be playing with fire_. The bookshop had burned, but that fire was in the past. What fires lay ahead? And were they metaphorical or literal? 

And even more pressing: Was he imagining it, or was Crowley smelling his hair?

No, probably his neck was just getting tired of this ridiculous position. Not that Aziraphale intended to move one centimeter before they reached their destination. Crowley’s scent was indeed lovely up close. Like the first warm sparks from kindling on a crisp winter day, like— 

“_Fire_,” Aziraphale said aloud, sitting abruptly upright in unison with the bus brakes screeching. 

Now, he could face Crowley, who waited for him to speak. Neither one withdrew his hand.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale went on, breathless with epiphany, “I _know _what we need to do.”


End file.
